


Drop the Hammer

by brightloveee



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex & Max Friendship, BAMF Alex Manes, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guns, Shooting Range, Super bad-ass Alex, no one is actually shot though, woeful lack of knowledge about guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20947178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightloveee/pseuds/brightloveee
Summary: Max makes a new friend at the shooting range, who turns out to be even more bad-ass than he expected.(Takes place mid-S1)





	Drop the Hammer

Max wasn’t used to having company at the shooting range so late at night.

The gun club usually closed around 7:30, but when it was high-schooler Omar Juarez working closing shift he could usually convince him to keep it open in exchange for a few slices of pizza or a burger & shake.

With Isobel suspended in the pod for weeks now, and Liz working around the clock to try to fix that, it wasn't like he had anywhere to go. But he did have a lot of feelings that could be relieved when he pulled the trigger.

He didn’t realize till he checked his watch at quarter past eight that he should head out. As he turned to leave and pull off his headset, he heard the sharp discharge of a handgun. He’d been so absorbed in his own thoughts he hadn’t realized someone else was still there.

Looking back across the field, Max saw the target a few rows down. The target paper was the shape of a silhouette. One bullet hole squarely at the center of the forehead, several at the center of the chest. Great shots.

The mystery guest seemed to have the same thought about packing up. He could hear the clatter of the headset and protective glasses on the table. Max stepped out of the booth at the same time as the other person. Their eyes met. Alex Manes.

“Oh,” he said. He hadn’t talked to the Manes kid since high school. He knew him, of course, in the context of being Michael’s secret something. He wasn’t sure what to call that.

“Nothing like a few rounds before dinner, right?” Alex said, eyebrows raised at Max’s blank face.

“Yeah,” Max responded. Alex glanced at Max’s target.

“Not bad aim, Evans.”

“You too,” he said back. “You headed to the Crashdown?”

Alex shrugged. “Might grab some tacos. There’s a place around the corner.”

“Mind if I join you?” Max didn’t know what possessed him to say that, he had no idea what he could possibly talk about with Alex Manes.

Alex smiled though, “Sure.”

Max hadn’t realized how long it had been since his last normal conversation until he was at the taqueria waiting for his food, chatting with his brother’s on-again/off-again... person, with seventeen-year-old Omar lurking behind them on his phone, waiting for them to treat him to tacos and Jarritos to go.

Isobel had been suspended in the pod long enough that he’d started talking to it, but she never said anything back. Things with Michael and with Liz were strained while they worked on solutions. He couldn’t talk to his parents without the pressure not to slip and reveal anything becoming too much, the same went for Noah. Even Cameron was being weird.

So here he was, stiffly saying things like, “That sure smells good.”

“Their carnitas are amazing,” Alex told him.

Max hadn’t been hungry in weeks. He’d lost weight. He felt like shit.

“Do you go to the range often?” He said abruptly.

“Lately, yeah. I got my concealed carry license in New Mexico. You?”

“Yeah, it’s a good place to blow off steam when I’m off-duty.”

“For sure,” Alex replied easily.

The taco stand was surprisingly-crowded for 8:30 on a Tuesday night in rural New Mexico. Except for the bar, the town was usually pretty sleepy. There were families standing to the side waiting for their orders, the line to the counter moving agonizingly slow for Max who was now completely out of things to say.

He was grateful to be getting close to the front when he heard the peel of tires and some shouting from somewhere around the corner of the building. He looked around and saw Alex standing rigidly, eyes fixed on the alleyway down the block.

“What is that?” Alex said, quietly. Then something in his expression changed as the engine got closer. “GET DOWN! EVERYONE GET DOWN!”

The truck burst around the corner full speed. It was a crew of Wyatt Long’s buddies, hanging out the windows of a beat-up F-150 pick-up truck hooting and hollering, blasting music. One of them standing in the bed of the truck had a pistol in his hand, waving it wildly over his head.

“GET DOWN!” Max joined Alex’s shouting. He scanned the civilians on the sidewalk, there were a few parents with young kids and an elderly man. They were scrambling and huddling, panicked and afraid. This was a nightmare Max couldn’t bear to watch.

The truck swerved around the building, skidding onto the road and came to a stop, headlights flooding the sidewalk in front of the taco stand in blinding light.

“Go back where you came from!” The men were shouting from their ugly, scrunched faces. “Get out of here, Mexicans!” Max identified four individuals. Two men in the cab of the truck, two standing on the bed. Only one with a visible firearm. The man in the passenger seat appeared to be dangling a large bottle of liquor out the window. Their eyes were wild, drunk, incoherent. The one man was still swinging his gun through the air as he paced in the bed of the truck and Max watched its trajectory.

The others exited the vehicle, still spouting vitriol, and rounding on Max.

He didn’t have a gun. He was off-duty. He’d left his service weapon.

All at once, a figure melted out of the shadows. The first man went down in two hits, a punch to his solar plexus and a swift uppercut square on the chin.

“_You fucker--_” the second man came at the figure, quickly felled by a jab and a powerful elbow across the face. He groaned as he hit the ground hard.

“Whoa!” the third man held up his hands.

“Put down your weapon!” The figure shouted. It was Alex Manes. He’d pulled his own handgun out of a holster underneath his jacket, and had it trained on the fourth man, still standing on the truck with

“Deputy Evans?” Alex asked loudly.

Max already had 911 dialed.

“You’re all under arrest!” Max yelled, stepping forward.

“I’d like to see you try!” The man with the gun vaulted over the side of the truck, and sloppily pointed it at Max.

Max was, unfortunately, pretty used to staring down the barrel of a pistol at this point. But it still never ceased to make his heart stutter for a moment, especially with the crazy glint in the man’s eyes.

He didn’t have long to assess the situation before Alex took a few long strides forward, and in a smooth and practiced move so quick that Max almost didn’t catch it, grabbed the gunman’s weapon with his left hand, twisted it down, and brought the butt of his own gun down on his wrist, effectively breaking it.

While the main screamed, he swiftly disarmed him, twisted the man’s injured arm behind his back and held him securely bent over.

Alex trained his gun on the remaining man, who now cowered uselessly before him.

“He said,_ you’re under arrest._” Alex’s voice boomed with authority.

“I didn’t mean fucking anything man,” the man was saying, hands up in the air, looking back and forth from Max to Alex beseechingly. Max came over and roughly pulled his arms behind his back.

“You’re under arrest,” he repeated. Max could hear sirens in the distance.

One of the men Alex had knocked down before twitched like he might try to make a run for it.

“Don’t,” Alex said sharply. The air seemed to leave all four perps.

Max turned to the civilians in front of the taqueria. They all appeared to be unharmed. Omar was taking a video on his phone. Max looked back at Alex, who was still holding down the one man while he whimpered about his injured wrist.

“Hell of a Tuesday night,” Alex shot him a quick grin.

Max found himself chuckling, for the first time in a long time.

“Just wanted a taco,” he said back.

By the time the squad cars pulled up, Max and Alex were on the verge of cracking up, each of them still restraining a drunk idiot, with two others writhing and bleeding on the ground, a small crowd of stunned civilians, and a grumpy teenager who still wanted his Jarritos.

Max had no idea what Michael would think of it, but he may have just found a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally know nothing about firearms or shooting ranges. I do not support guns at all. This is just for fic. Let me know if there are glaring errors I should know!


End file.
